Inhuman
by Quintessential Antagonist
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has long since abandoned his dreams of faeries and magic and monsters, leaving them to gather dust. But with the arrival of an obnoxious American and an incident no one expected, he's forcefully dragged back into this world, facing ghosts and werewolves and vampires alike, and slowly coming to terms with the fact that he might be one of them. AU, USUK and others.
1. Unlucky

**So. Hello. :)**

**I'm not sure if it's a little early or what, but I've decided to start my first multi-chapter fic. I had this idea even before I wrote my one-shot, but because I'm lazy and an awful procrastinator, I didn't get it written until recently. And due to my love of all things spooky, this is of the supernatural genre, just because I've been reading _way_ too many ghost stories lately, so apologies if it sounds cliché in parts. There will be references to mythology later on, too, since I'm a complete nerd for that sort of stuff. XD**

**Main pairing: USUK, though there will be others. Quite a few others, actually.**

**Warnings: None, really. Some swearing, I suppose, because Iggy is involved.**

**So, without further ado...**

**Onto the story!**

* * *

Arthur Kirkland wasn't having the best of days, even before the Grim Reaper came into play.

He'd never been the luckiest person in the world. Fate hadn't dealt him the best of hands. A friendless childhood, constant arguments with his siblings, and three moves so far in his seventeen years of life. He was unsettled, to say the least. His parents paid barely a tidbit of attention to any of their children, preferring instead to go gallivanting across the country, leaving their offspring to fend for themselves. Though two of the four Kirkland kids had moved out, they continued to fight via telephone and email, and he was left alone to take care of his little brother. His life was a constant struggle of trying to juggle home life and the piles upon piles of schoolwork that were stacking up because of the upcoming exams. On top of that, there were the beady eyes of his teachers glued to his back, always at worry for his mental health. Fearing for the weird, friendless boy who occasionally saw strange things out of the corner of his eye, and even more commonly, right in front of his nose. His therapist did nothing to sooth their paranoia, and so the insistent fussing continued. Nobody stopped to ask whether Arthur himself wanted this. Nobody stopped to asked what Arthur wanted point blank.

No, Arthur didn't consider himself very lucky at all.

He was mulling over why such bad luck seemed to befall him when a magazine was dropped on his desk. His head snapped up to glare at whoever would dare to drop this filth onto his work space. It was bad enough having to write for the school's tabloid — he didn't want to be reminded of what his talents were being used for. His gaze bore into the perpetrator.

Francis Bonnefoy smiled back, face as soft and innocent as a grizzlybear's. He flipped the magazine open and turned the pages until he found his desired section. Jabbing it with his forefinger, smile widening enough to crack his face, he said, "For reference."

Arthur looked from him to the page, and back again. He blinked. "Reference to what?"

Francis chuckled. He was the living French stereotype, from his wavy blond locks and flamboyant attire to his flippancy and general unpleasantness, proven by the mocking sound escaping his lips now. He sounded like he should be stretched across a futon, sipping wine and surrounded by women, not running a school magazine. But unfortunately that was the extracurricular activity he had chosen, and what was even more unfortunate was that Arthur had decided to take a swing at being a columnist. It wasn't that he wanted to have anything to do with the media in his future career, it was that this had been his only option. After he was kicked out of the Future Historians club due to a fist fight between him and a boy named Antonio — on account of that Spanish bastard suggesting England would willingly send pirates to attack Spain even now. The nerve! — no other club would accept him, and he needed the credit. At that time, it had been an actual newspaper, and was run by a highly organised and intelligent Monacan girl who had actually known what was worth printing. She'd been in her final year and had graduated the following term, leaving Francis — who, out of all the remaining members, had been there the longest — to take her place. And just like that, the entire paper had been turned from a newsletter into a girly gossip mag, with Francis' Agony Aunt section hogging the spotlight, front-page, whilst Arthur's modest little column had been shoved to the back and promptly ignored. The two hadn't been on the best of terms to begin with, but after that, Arthur had hated Francis' guts with a passion so strong it was almost a physical force.

"Reference to my previous writings, of course," the Frenchman informed him, as if he were merely a child on their first day of primary school, barely comprehensive of the alphabet. "How do you expect to replicate the work of _votre serviteur_ without doing some background research?"

He pushed the magazine towards Arthur, the light overhead spilling onto the pages and giving them a strange sheen. Printed on them was an overload of paragraphs containing useless drivel on romance and true love and the secrets to finding one's supposed 'soulmate', as if such a sorry excuse for a myth could ever amount to any truth. Here and there, notes were added in Francis' sprawling cursive, tips for Arthur on how to give out flawless advice. Some of them were simple, such as _Remember to reassure the client_ or _Draw comparisons between their problem and another's. Pretend you deal with it all the time, and know how to solve it._ Then there was the pieces of text that were long and detailed, going through things step-by-step and making sure the instructions were so clear that they could accuse crystal of hiding something. And finally, at the end, one simple message, written in block capitals and underlined three times: **_DO NOT REFER TO PERSONAL EXPERIENCE!_**

Arthur just stared at the page for a minute, gathering scattered brain cells into some sort of coherent thought. "You—you want _me_ to take your job?" he asked, hardly believing the words that were falling from his lips. In his opinion, the Agony Aunt was possibly the most distasteful job on a magazine that was so distasteful in itself that it might as well have been a meal from one of those chain fast-food restaurants Americans seemed to practically worship. Any other circumstance and he would rather off himself then even consider taking up the position, but maybe, just maybe, if it held the possibility of Francis' resignation—

"No," Francis said, and there went his hopes, shattering like glass and falling in a heap at his feet. "Not permanently, anyway. You see, I shall be leaving on a little trip for a while, _mon completent débile_, and I need someone to keep my part of the magazine running."

"And I don't suppose you'll be handing me the job of editor, too?"

At this, Francis laughed. It echoed around the empty classroom, reserved for them and the rest of the magazine staff if they ever bothered to show up. It sounded to Arthur a little like he was choking on his own saliva. "_Mon Dieu_, no! I'd never trust you with something as important as that. _Tu es bêtes comme tes pieds._" He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, still smiling. "No, you'll be left with the simplest of tasks. I've made a list of practically all the answers you could give—" he pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and set it on the desk, "—and, quite obviously, given you an abundance of tips. You may thank me for managing to turn one of the most vital parts of our magazine into something even a tiny mind like yours could understand." He swooped down in a dramatic bow, chin pointed at the ceiling, frozen in that position as if waiting for applause. When none came, he straightened, scowled and added, "Oh, and you'll also be conducting interviews."

At this, Arthur spluttered. "I'm sorry," he said, "but what even gave you the faintest idea that I would be willing to accept these tasks? And what the hell is  
_this_?" He pointed to the last piece of writing on the magazine page.

Francis glanced at it, and shrugged. "Well, let us just say that you are a bit of a romantic failure, no? Your record can hardly compare to that of a love god like _moi_."

"One of these days your head will disappear entirely up your arse," Arthur informed him. "People won't be finding you so bloody attractive then."

"Jealousy is not a beautiful trait, _mon ami_, and you need all the beauty you can get."

"I'm not going along with this." He crossed his arms in defiance.

"Oh Arthur, Arthur," the Frenchman chided. "What other option do you have?"

"I have plenty!" Arthur cried, indignant. "Vlad said he might be setting up a Magic club. I'd take that over this torture zone in a minute."

"Really?" Francis scoffed. "And how long would it be until you smashed your fist into another innocent's face, hm?"

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, but then thought better of it. That would get him nowhere. And perhaps just the smallest part of him was pondering on what Francis had said— pondering on whether he could be right. He could simply dismiss it as the Frenchman being peeved over Arthur attacking one of his friends, but really, what was the point in denial? He'd never truly got along with anybody. Friendship had never been a priority in his life, and he wasn't about to turn it into something major at this point. No, it was much too late to change himself now, and anyway, he felt no real need to. Holding back the venom that seemed to coat his tongue, he said, "Fine. I'll write the bloody Agony Aunt. Happy?"

Francis looked like he wanted to clap his hands in glee, but refrained from doing so. "Very. And the interviews?"

"Who will I be interviewing?"

Francis waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, no one too big and scary. Just a boy who arrived last week — an American. Alfred, I believe his name was."

Arthur felt himself blanch. "Al—Alfred?"

"_Oui._" Francis' eyes became suspiciously innocent. "Are you two acquainted?"

Arthur winced. 'Acquainted' was a nice way of putting it. He hadn't even known the other boy's name, but that hadn't mattered once he'd learnt that the school was refusing to buy new books for the library, choosing instead to squander the money on useless sports equipment, all in aid of the supposed 'football star' who would be honouring them with his presence in their humble house of learning. Arthur had been so miffed that the moment the boy had set foot inside the school, he'd marched right up to him and given him a long and bountiful lecture on the importance of literature at this key stage of a young person's life, followed by a strict telling off and a stamp on the toe for good measure. The boy had stared at him blankly for most of this, barely reacting even as his own foot was trod upon. Then, once the Brit's temper tantrum was finished, he'd grinned like a loon, stuck out a hand and said, "Hey there! I'm Alfred F. Jones!"

Needless to say, Arthur hadn't got such a positive reaction from the teachers. Their appalled looks had been the forewarning of the many detentions to come. After he'd been sent home early that day, threats of phone calls to parents and offences on his yearly report trailing behind him, he'd decided that he hated this Alfred boy. No questions asked, no other words needed, just an overwhelming hatred that knew no bounds. After a quick rant to the wall about the tragic comedy that his life had become, he'd calmed down a little, but his newfound grudge hadn't shifted. He was determined to spite the American, no matter how clueless Alfred had seemed about the damage he was doing to the education of so many. They hadn't bumped into each other since, but Arthur knew that the moment they did, he would give the boy a full piece of his mind, and this time fists would assist in getting his point across.

At least, that had been the plan. Now, however, it seemed he'd be forced to take a different approach.

Francis was watching him with a quirked eyebrow, showing no signs of whether or not he spotted the anger that Arthur was trying so desperately to conceal. After a prolonged silence, he said, "Well, anyway, I've arranged the interview between you and him this lunchtime. Just ask him a few questions on his past experience with sport, and try not tear out his eyeballs, hm?"

"Did you choose him on purpose?" Arthur asked, deciding to abandon pretence.

"Well, I'd hardly pick an interviewee by accident, now would I, silly little English pig dog?"

"I didn't mean — you know what, never mind. And I'm practically clueless on sports."

"Just make it up as you go along. Although—" Francis eyed Arthur's attire skeptically, "I'm not sure I trust you putting things together, considering that ensemble you've chosen to wear."

"Just because _you_ choose to neglect the given uniform—"

"It is your country's fault for keeping such an atrocious dress code in schools. Back in my illustrious homeland, we were allowed to wear whatever we pleased." He sighed. "Ah, perhaps it's for the best, though. I've seen your casual wear — even that term is questionable."

"Sod off, _tête de noeud_."

"So you _are_ familiar with the language of _l'amour._" Francis sounded almost impressed. He walked to his own desk, gathering up his things as the clock on the wall indicated to five minutes to nine. School started on the hour. "There may be hope for you yet. Your accent could use some work, though. You speak French like a Spanish cow."

Arthur merely scoffed and chucked his Biro at him.

* * *

"Alright, question number one — uh, what do you like most about football?"

Sitting across the table from Arthur, Alfred looked delighted to be asked. He practically bounced in his seat as he gushed, "Well, there's so much! Over in the States, we call it soccer, and football is the game where—"

"I know what it is!" Arthur snapped, only two minutes into the conversation and already weary. He massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. "Please, can we just stick to the point?"

Arthur was starting to regret ever thinking about journalism, extra credit or not. As if the prospect of spending his lunch with this prat wasn't bad enough, Francis had also arranged for the interview to take place in the part of the school grounds Arthur dreaded the most **—** the canteen. On an ordinary schoolday, he would've eaten a packed lunch inside the school building, then hidden near the lockers or under the stairs and waited break out. He _certainly_ would never have come to this animal shed, a place choked full of the delinquents he despised, laughing and joking and shooting spit balls with their friends. Although he and Alfred had managed to secure an empty table on the opposite side of the room to them, Arthur could still feel their incompetence, almost as if it were a noxious gas, lowering his IQ the longer he was exposed to it.

The next time he saw Francis, he vowed to wring the frog's skinny neck.

Alfred stopped bouncing, looking momentarily deflated, before grinning widely and regaining his gusto once more. Honestly, Arthur had no idea where the other boy acquired all his energy from. From the moment he'd gotten here, the American had been blabbering non-stop, starting with his joyous exclamation of, "Hey, you're that midget who attacked me on Monday!"

He'd then proceeded to smother Arthur in an overly friendly hug, which Arthur had attempted to squirm out of whilst grumbling that he was only one or two inches shorter than the American. Alfred had just laughed and ruffled his hair, then apologised profusely for being the fault of the school not purchasing more of 'those dusty paperback things' and going on to say how 'psyched' he was that Arthur had still agreed to interview him, and how 'freakin' awesome' it was going to be.

It had taken Arthur a few minutes to calm the boy down, and a few more to convince him that Arthur would be asking the questions and that Alfred couldn't just go off on a ramble of his own. He looked down at the few he had composed, and chewed his lip. They didn't seem very professional, but then what was Francis expecting? He knew as much about sports as a sailor did about mountain biking.

Meanwhile, Alfred had begun talking again. His voice, although deep, reminded Arthur of that of an excitable dolphin. "And then there was this one match," Alfred was saying, face alive with excitement, "where me and this guy were neck-in-neck running for the ball, and he pushed me down, and I swear I nearly broke my face—" Arthur didn't even point out how physical impossible it was to actually break one's face, no matter how many times over the course of his life he'd wished that wasn't true, "—but in the end I only bumped my head and chipped a tooth. Oh, and I sprained my ankle too. Man, that was so awesome, because—"

"Mr. Jones," Arthur interjected, "Are you by any chance a masochist?"

Alfred looked startled. "A—a what? You use a lot of fancy words, you know. Are you one of those—" His face scrunched up in thought, eyebrows knitting together comically. He flapped his hands vaguely. "—those...damn, what's the word? Cattle prods?"

"Do you mean prodigies?" Arthur sighed. Alfred nodded. "No, I just have the quintessential brain cells for competent thought."

Alfred took a moment to contemplate whether this was an insult or not. Apparently deciding on the latter, he whooped with laughter, the burst of sound making the seemingly permanent scowl gracing Arthur's facial features deepen to a point of improbability. "Man, you are a funny little guy, aren't you? But I don't know what a maso**—**whatsit is, so I can't answer your question." Arthur sunk lower into his chair, plastic cool against his back. It was all he could do to keep from smacking his head against the table. Alfred had thought that was part of the _interview._ Of course. "And don't call me Mr. Jones. It makes you sound like some old guy, or worse, a teacher. Call me Alfred, or Al if you really like." His face stretched into a friendly grin, which Arthur did not return. Alfred didn't seem fazed. "So what do I call you? You're writing an article on me and I don't even know your name!"

Arthur really didn't want to disclose any more personal information than was absolutely necessary, and he saw no reason to just hand his name over, but despite what most people thought, he'd been raised a gentleman. And as his father had once said, a gentleman must always display some manners, especially in times when he feels least like doing so.

"Arthur," he offered, then followed it with a "Kirkland," because social etiquette seemed to demand a surname also be given.

Alfred looked pleased with himself for having managed to elicit even that small morsel of information out of Arthur. Arthur had a inkling he would've slapped him on the shoulder had the Brit not leaned as far away from him as humanely possible. "Nice name, dude. It's real British, isn't it?"

"Well, considering I'm from England, then yes."

"Huh," Alfred said, as if this had never even crossed him mind. "Well, it's great to meet ya, Artie."

Arthur flinched at the positively vulgar sentence the other boy had just spouted. "Is it really necessary to give me a nickname, a) After we've only just met, and b) That's nearly as long as my given name?"

" 'Course there is! Nicknames are awesome." The constant glint of his teeth was starting to get on Arthur's nerves, although it really shouldn't. Alfred had quite a nice smile, to be honest— bright and genuine, a rare combination in today's world. Add in his warm blond hair, crystal blue eyes, the way his wire-rimmed glasses balanced adorably on the edge of his nose, and not to mention his toned body — muscles prominent even under the school's atrociously baggy uniform — and he was the dictionary definition of gorgeous. Too bad the pile of mushy peas he called a brain ruined it.

"Arthur?" Alfred snapped his fingers under Arthur's nose. He blinked, yanked out of his reverie, and shook his head to clear it. That was odd. Spacing out wasn't like him.

Alfred shot him a lopsided grin. "Like what you see, huh?"

His tone was teasing, yet Arthur felt his face heat up anyway. He prayed it wasn't visible, but Alfred's amused look told him otherwise. "It's okay, dude," the American reassured him. "No one here's judging. I just didn't take you for the type."

"I'm not—" Arthur began, then stopped himself, realising that arguing with this knobhead was fruitless."Can we _please_ just continue with the interview?"

"Sure." Alfred leant back, placing both feet up on the table. Arthur frowned, but didn't comment. "Ask away."

"So why exactly**—"**

"Excuse me, Arthur-san, is this seat free?"

"Oh for God's sake!" Arthur whirled round, eyes blazing, prepared to bite the head off the sorry git who had the nerve to interrupt him when he was obviously in the middle of something important. "Can't you see that I'm—" He froze. "Kiku?"

In front of him stood a short Asian boy, clutching a tray and staring at him with wide, terrified brown eyes. He stepped back hastily and stuttered, "O-of course, Arthur-san, please accept my apologies. I see you're in the middle of something. I will just—"

"No, no, it's fine." Arthur felt guilt bubble up instead his chest. He gestured to the seat beside him. "Sit, if you want."

"_Arigato_, Arthur-san."

Arthur watched as Kiku deposited his tray and took a seat. The two of them got along fairly well, though he wouldn't call them close friends. Kiku was one of the few who, like Arthur, had absolutely nothing in common with their so-called 'peers.' Up until Year 11, he'd spent his days joined at the hip with some Grecian boy, engaging in conversation with only him and mostly getting him to talk in his stead. A large percentage of the student body hadn't even known that Kiku spoke English. It had come as quite a shock when, the September after the Grecian had graduated, Arthur had been sitting alone — having been shooed into canteen by a grumpy teacher who had stumbled upon his hidey-hole — and Kiku had appeared, politely asking if they may sit together, just like he had a moment ago. They hadn't said much, but it had been nice. After that, whenever Arthur was forced out of the school, they would sit side-by-side in contented silence, occasionally offering up a comment on classes or the weather. It was peaceful, and Arthur, though he was far from a social butterfly, appreciated the company. He felt horrible for letting his annoyance at the task he was set push Kiku from his mind.

"Uh, Alfred, this is Kiku Honda" Arthur said, feeling introductions were in order since an awkward silence had settled. "Kiku, this is Alfred F. Jones. I'm interviewing him for the school—" he air quoted, "—'paper'."

Kiku offered Alfred a wan smile. "_Konnichiwa_, Alfred-san. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Woah." Alfred's eyes widened to the size of plates, making him resemble a startled fish. He laughed uproariously."Dude, your _accent_! What's with the way you pronounce your _L's_?"

Arthur flushed, scandalised by what his interviewee had ever-so-casually said. Really, what ever happened to the simple concept known as manners? He was about to scold Alfred for his terrible rudeness when Kiku cut in smoothly, "I am originally from Japan. In the language of my country, we use _R_ in place of _L_, since there is no _L_ in our alphabet. It makes getting used to English rather difficult, and according to some native speakers, I can be hard to understand. I am sorry if this is an inconvenience."

"No, of course not," Arthur assured him before Alfred could get a word in edgewise. "We understand you perfectly. Right, Alfred?" Arthur glared.

Alfred swallowed. "Right."

"But I hope you don't mind, Kiku, if we continue with the interview? Lunch is almost over."

"Go on ahead, Arthur-san."

"Okay." Arthur skimmed through the remaining questions, searching for one that seemed even remotely interesting. Finally he settled on, "So why did you move to Great Britain?"

"Well. Um. Ah." Alfred's brow dipped in thought, the only indication Arthur had seen so far that told him the cogs in the American's brain were capable of turning. He rubbed his hands together and chewed absently on his lip, a habit the Brit found rather irritating. "There's tons of reasons, I guess," he said at length. "I mean, it wasn't exactly my choice. My mom decided she wanted a break from New York — she'd spent her life there, ever since she was a kid, and she said she was feeling claustrophobic or whatever. I didn't really mind, I was happy to live the rest of my life out in the same place, but Mom was adamant and then my little bro — my bro wasn't too fond of it, either." He finished the last bit in a rush, then hurriedly stuffed food into his mouth, nearly choking in his haste. Arthur and Kiku stared as the boy attempted to vanquish his sudden bought of coughing with Arthur's drink, only to spit the liquid back out the moment it passed his lips. "Oh man, that's disgusting! What _is_ that?"

"Tea," Arthur told him. "The nearest thing to the godly Nectar we have on this Earth."

"It tastes like an old dude's bath water." Alfred wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, before using the same piece of material to wipe up the spill he'd made. Arthur bit down on the urge to give out to him, knowing he should be thankful the idiot was at least cleaning up after himself. "Now where was I? Oh yeah, the move. Actually, that's kinda it. No devious ulterior motive or anything like in a Hollywood blockbuster."

"And how did you find it **—** England, I mean?"

"Way different. It was kinda hard to adjust — I mean, you guys speak all weird and your food sucks ass and your players can't even hope to compete with my soccer skills. And your attitudes! I said good morning to a guy and he flipped me off. I was all sincere and everything! Yeah, those parts were pretty bad...but it was more than just that. Our first house was in Cornwall, since my mom needed to get away from big cities for a while. A breath of fresh air, ya know? And I just remember standing there, taking it all in **— **the rural atmosphere, the unfamiliar neighbours, the _trees _— God, there were so many of them **—** and just realising that there was no more America for me. That no matter how hard I tried, I'd probably never fit in anywhere. And I just thought, 'This is it. This is my new home. This is me having to start all over again.' "

A silence settled over the small group. Arthur raked his mind for ways to break it, something he could say to that, but came up empty. It was beginning to seem like they'd sit in an unending quiet until the bell rang to signal lunch's end, when Kiku surprised the other two by suddenly murmuring, "I know how you feel, Alfred-san."

Alfred looked taken aback. "Y—you do?"

"Yes," Kiku said, nodding to back-up this statement. "I can still recall the shock I received when I first moved from Tokyo to England. It was a long time ago, but— in comparison to the place where I was raised, this was almost another planet. The cultural differences were astounding. I have adapted now, of course, but I can see where you are coming from."

"Huh." Alfred still looked a little flabbergasted. "Well...thanks, Kiki."

"Kiku."

"Thanks, Kiku." Despite the name error, he sounded genuine. Arthur cleared his throat, which had all of a sudden gone inexplicably dry.

"Alrighty, then. So you moved to Cornwall first. What persuaded you to come to Nottingham later on?"

Alfred shrugged. "I dunno. Guess we'd been away from city life long enough." He grinned. "It's cool here, though, 'spite everything. And at least you guys have _some_ wicked movies, like the one with the blue box and the aliens and fezzes and stuff. "

Arthur found himself in a mental struggle with that devious facial feature known as a smile. He decide to hide it by moving on to the next question, and bent his head over his list. Suddenly, a rhythmic tolling echoed through the room.

"Bell," Arthur said, as he stood and gathered his things, Kiku lending a hand. Alfred just looked dazed, as if he had completely forgotten they were in school.

Arthur nudged him and Alfred jolted up, knocking back his chair as he did so. He clumsily hauled it back up again, muttering apologies to the inanimate object. Arthur did nothing but raise an eyebrow at him, a rather awkward task considering how heavy they were. The other boy shot him a grin. "So, I guess you got a load of stuff down from that, right?"

Arthur let his eyes wander to his notebook, which was blank save for the questions he'd jotted down earlier. He forced out a laugh, hoping it sounded convincing. "Certainly. Although I don't think it's quite enough for a full article. We might have to go again tomorrow."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Oh please, you just want to spend some more time with my handsome self. Don't make excuses", he chuckled when Arthur began to reply, "We both know it's true."

"You wish." Arthur turned around to thank Kiku for his help, only to find that the Japanese boy had vanished. The guilt returned with the force of a tsunami, and he made a silent promise to spend more time with Kiku once Francis returned to his position. He turned his attention back to Alfred. "Do you need me to show you to your next class?"

"Dude, I've been going here for a week now. I think I know my way around."

"Oh." Arthur flushed. "Oh. Of course. Silly me."

Despite Arthur putting on his most convincing act (which, in all honesty, wasn't that convincing at all), Alfred must have seen through it, quick to add, "There's something else you could help me with, though."

"Why would you think I'd want to help you?" Arthur snapped out the reply before he could stop himself. He waited for Alfred to flinch as most did when subjected to his poison tongue, but the American didn't even acknowledge his outburst.

"I was wondering if you could introduce me to the blonde babe over there." He jerked his thumb towards one of the other tables, and Arthur craned his neck, trying catch sight of who he was talking about. When his gaze fell on the 'blonde babe' in question, he silently swore.

Natalia Braginski sat on her own, chin in her palms and eyes trained on him. The term Alfred had used certainly applied to her — platinum blonde, skinny, pretty as a petal and cold as the land from which she hailed. Arthur disliked quite a lot of people — it was nearly second nature by now — but she was on his top ten list, and marching a steady pace towards number one. Much to his chagrin, she caught his looking at her and smiled, a slow, almost sadistic movement of her lips. Crooking a finger, she beckoned him over, eyes alight with dark glee.

"Um — I'll just be a minute. I need to talk to someone." He strode towards Natalia, paying no heed to Alfred's protests. Her expression didn't change, but she stood up, and once he reached her table, quickly closed the distance between them. She was much too close for comfort, the scent of her perfume hitting him like a hyperbolic cannonball, her breasts practically squashed against his chest. He fought down the urge to squirm. Her blue eyes scrutinised him, crinkling like she sensed how uncomfortable he was and enjoyed it.

"My sister sends a message." Her voice was husky and heavily accented. "She says your session will begin earlier tonight. Six o'clock. She wants to squeeze in some extra time before she leaves."

"Leaves?" Arthur frowned. "Where's she going?"

"She didn't ask me to tell you that."

Arthur inwardly groaned. He hated questioning Natalia; she would never give a straight answer. She'd either dodge his question, bluntly refuse to respond, or go on a long winded philosophical rant that usually ended with her rambling about the greatness of her big brother. Arthur was starting to doubt this 'Ivan' person even existed, just an imaginary man brought to life inside a deranged girl's mind. It was a completely logical explanation; she was even more barmy than he was believed to be.

He turned to go, not wanting to waste anymore time, but froze when he felt sometime akin to an iron clamp latch onto his wrist. Natalia's fingernails dug deep into his skin, no doubt creating crescent-shaped grooves there. She pulled him back until her chin rested on his shoulder, her chest against his spine, her lips next to his ear. A shudder passed through him and he tried to pull away, but her grip held fast. He could feel the stretch of her skin as she smiled, feel the heat of her breath as she whispered, "You bring death with you, Arthur. It follows in your wake."

"Let me go," he growled.

Natalia laughed. It sounded like the tinkling of a bell, if said said bell had resided in the seventh level of hell and been used to signal feeding time for the demons. She held him tighter to her, so close that it seemed as if she meant to merge them, push them together until they passed some unthinkable point and became one. "Stop struggling," she told him as he gave another attempt at tugging his hand back, to no avail."You'll just hurt yourself."

Her nails dug deeper, and Arthur decided that if she didn't let go soon, she'd draw blood. He forced himself to relax. If she wanted to talk philosophy, he'd talk philosophy.

"Death follows everyone," he said, making his voice sound smooth and indifferent. "It's a natural thing. We always have the Grim Reaper looking over our shoulder, and if you haven't noticed that by now, you're more delusional than I thought."

To his surprise, he felt her chuckle, and then it struck him; her position; his analogy. "What you say is true," she purred, "However — the cloaked being that pursues you is far from natural. I've never seen it this clearly before. Nor have I witnessed such blood on its scythe." She spun him around to face her, grip on his right hand never wavering. "There's a murder coming."

It sounded so cliché, the single line on the lips of a woman so terrifying, seeming so out of place in such a mundane little building, that Arthur almost laughed. It brought to mind the question of who exactly noticed their display, but when he cast his eyes about, he saw everyone else was much too preoccupied with their own insignificant problems to pay them much attention. He felt like yelling at them to pull their heads out of their arses, but feared the louder he shouted, the more he'd go unheard. As seemed to have been the case all his life.

Natalia fixed her eyes on him, dissecting. It felt as if every thought he'd ever had was being plucked from his mind and slowly prised apart. In a manner that was almost gentle, her hold on him slackened, until she finally released his wrist and let her hands fall to her side. "But you don't care about that, do you?" she whispered.

"There's killings everyday."

"Not your own."

Those words echoed inside Arthur's head like it was an empty cave. His own death — such a complex, faraway concept. It brought to mind the stage production that was his life, the way things had always seemed to catch him at unawares, to come earlier than expected. The young blond boy with the funny eyebrows, once acclaimed for his stories of monsters and magic, had suddenly been shunned as weird and delusional. This same boy, who had gotten along so well with his siblings, who had tumbled with his older brothers on the grass and swore he'd protect the youngest with his life, had blinked and found cracks between them, widening into a cavernous distance that no mere mortal could jump. This same boy who had swelled with pride at his British heritage, had been shipped off to a completely different country, away from everything he'd ever known, just because his parents 'needed a break.'

This same boy, this blond boy, who had truly believed he'd found his true love, had one day discovered him on top of a woman, his fair, silky locks falling on her face the way they had fallen on the boy's countless times before, his lips pressed to her's so hard it seemed as if both of them might break.

_Unlucky_, people had said. So, so very unlucky. The poor boy with all the fortune of a beggar.

"No," he told Natalia, detached and deadpan, as if all of this was just another extract from the books he valued so dearly. It was so easy to perceive it that way. "No, my killing doesn't happen everyday." Pause, and then, " But everyday, I expect it to."

Arthur turned on his heel and walked away then, not patient enough to wait for her response. He half expected her to come after him, but his act must have been highly convincing, since he could hear no sound of her dancer's footsteps following in his wake. The dramatics of his performance surprised even him. He'd been a little careless, though, playing the part a little too well. Letting a little of himself seep into his character.

He returned to his table and collected his bag, some small, negligible part of his mind panicking over his punctuality. So wrapped up in his thoughts was Arthur that he didn't notice the blond standing over him until he tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "Dude, what was that? You were practically at second base!"

Arthur jumped about a foot in the air. He shouldered his bag and reddened, ashamed at being caught at such unawares. He honestly hadn't expected the American to wait for him. People didn't often do that.

He would have been grateful, had it not been _Alfred._

"It was nothing," he growled, suddenly feeling as sour as freshly squeezed lemon juice. He began to stride towards the exit — a stride, not a strut, he did not _strut _— Alfred, as typical of his puppy-like nature, following him. Compared to Natalia's cold, dark presence, a grey stormcloud threatening to pour, he was like a miniature sun, warm and reliable. It still didn't make Arthur feel any less horrid.

The American raised an eyebrow, falling into step with him. "It sure didn't seem like nothing. I've seen a hell of a lot of PDA in my time, and man, what happened there was just off the scale." His eyes darted to the left, where Natalia presumably still stood, and where Arthur blatantly refused to look. "Where you, like, grinding, or**—**"

"No!" The monosyllable burst forth from Arthur's mouth. Revulsion swamped him at that mere thought. "No, no, no, a definite no!"

"Uh-huh." Alfred didn't sound convinced. In fact, there was a small flash of hurt across his face as he said, "You told me you weren't into girls."

"I never said that." When Alfred's face fell even more, Arthur let his tone soften just a smidge. "But I'm certainly not 'into' Natalia. She was just having one of her loony moments. I think the poor girl needs committing."

Alfred studied him for a moment, nibbling at his lip, uncertainty plastered across his face. He wasn't very good at concealing emotions, Arthur observed. He pondered a little longer than Arthur was comfortable with, looking distant in a way he really shouldn't. But there must have been something to his voice, or to the way he phrased those words, because Alfred broke out his now-familiar grin, apparently satisfied with his answer. "Yeah, it's always the hot chicks who end up cracked. Still, I can't say I won't seek out her company if it carries on like this. 'Cause no offence or anything, Artie, but your curves just aren't deadly enough for me."

Arthur placed a hand on his heart, feigning shock. "Why, I'll have you know that these curves have started wars! Driven men to their knees! My body is as untameable as the mighty dragon Smaug from J.R.R. Tolkien's masterpiece!"

Alfred winked. "Well, looks like it's my heroic duty to break it in, then, doesn't it?" he said, and broke into raucous laughter, chest heaving with each burst of unadulterated joy. Arthur struggled to withhold his smile, then thought, just that once, _Oh, to hell with it_, and grinned, and chuckled, and finally laughed alongside Alfred, the sound of their pure happiness resounding throughout the empty canteen — empty, save for one Belarusian girl whose cold stare on Arthur's back went unnoticed while they chortled, unnoticed while Arthur savoured this feeling of softness blossoming in his chest, unnoticed right up until Alfred stepped out the door. That was when Arthur felt the strange prickle on the back of his neck, heard the lilting voice calling him back, and almost against his will, turned his head just a fraction of an inch, spotting Natalia in his peripheral vision. She hadn't moved at all. But she was no longer looking at him. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the space Alfred had occupied not a moment ago, a malignant smile playing on her lips. In a movement so slow it seemed almost deliberate, her eyes drifted over to his, deep as the ocean, a never-ending blue surrounding him and dragging him down, down, filling his lungs with her spite and drowning him in her malice. Her round, perfect lips formed words, unclear to him at first, his brain only registering them after she repeated the motion more than thrice. It was a simple sentence, words no different from any other, yet arranged in a way that came down on him like a bucket of cold water. He shivered, and he was shivering still as he left, as Alfred chattered on about nothing at all, as he sat in class and listened to teachers spout meaningless drivel. The words tumbled through his head, and he arranged them, rearranged them, took them apart and pieced them back together like Lego bricks. But still the sentence remained the same, and there was no way to change it. It was fixed, a fixed message, a simple message that could mean life, that could mean death. That was now imprinted on each individual brain cell. Natalia's message:

_It might not be you._

* * *

**First chapter, done!**

**I know it was a little slow, but it's really just setting the scene. Believe me, it will pick up soon. :3 ****Updates will be sporadic, because like Arthur, I've got exams. Such a pain. But I'm getting closer to the Junior Cert, which is...actually...worse... 0-0**

**Ahem. _N__udge nudge._ Feel free to review. You know, if you want to. Or don't. I'm not picky. I like to hear feedback, though!**

**P.S. Anyone spot the Monty Python reference?**


	2. Warnings and Prophecies

**New chapter!**

**A big thanks to everyone who's reviewed/favourited/followed so far — it seriously means a lot to me. :)**

* * *

It was always a laborious task, dragging himself up the three flights of stairs that led to Doctor Braginski's office. It wasn't the actually effort that the task itself demanded; it was more the thought of what was to come, the dread curdling his stomach and pounding his head. An hour and a half in a small, stuffy room where you could see the dust mites hovering in the air, with a woman who started off quizzing him about his feelings and ended up collapsed in tears herself. Her current record was fifty straight minutes of sobbing, no pause for breath. He wasn't sure exactly how much research his parents had done when choosing his therapist, or if they'd simply picked the first one they'd seen. Most likely the latter. Her name sounded professional, and she had the necessary qualifications, but apart from that...well, to be frank, she was useless. No two ways about it. There was always that rush of guilt that swamped him whenever he thought like that, but it wasn't like it was his fault. The Ukrainian just wasn't suited to this job.

The final step creaked as he set his foot down upon it, sounding like an old man who'd just been aroused from his nap by rowdy grandchildren. The building was dilapidated, the type that no longer showed its age by the termite-infested furniture or the lingering smell of must or the filthy, peeling wallpaper, but by the warning notices pinned up everywhere, urging people to tread carefully, to not touch, and to basically leave before they sorrowfully regretted it. He rapped on the flaking door, colour no longer discernible, and waited, hands clasped behind his back like an impatient toddler. He didn't dare rock on his heels: that one small movement could send him toppling down the stairway and reward him with a smashed skull and snapped neck. At that gruesome image he shuddered, remembering his confrontation with Natalia earlier that day. He knocked again, louder this time, letting his impatience get the better of him. There was no reply.

Arthur frowned. It wasn't like Doctor Braginski not to answer. For all he knew, she lived in her office — he'd never seen her about the town, or even exiting the building. He tried the door handle, brass and shaped like a clenched fist. The door swung open easily, throwing strips of light into the old room like luminescent streamers. He braced himself, expecting the interrogation to start immediately.

"_So, how would you describe your mood today?"_

"_And what, in your opinion, is the reason you need to come here?_

"_Do you think that's affecting you personally?"_

"_Are there any other troubles going on in your life_?"

"_Would you say it's connected to something else? Friends? Family?"_

"_And how does that make you _feel_?"_

He'd heard those words a thousand times over. They were empty, meaningless, devoid of any true depth, just letters stuffed together in a vain attempt to form something coherent. Yet still she repeated them, asked those same questions on a weekly basis, sometimes twice a week if the self-proclaimed 'adults' felt he was acting extra aberrant. She jotted down her notes in that notepad with the turquoise cover, this woman, this supposed expert, and continued to try and pick his brain even though she was using the completely wrong tools for the job. And Arthur went along with it, because what else was there to do but smile and nod and give back false, dry answers? It seemed to satisfy her well enough, this mantra of fibs and lies.

But the onslaught never came. She wasn't there. He stepped into the room, peering around as if she might be hiding in the shadows, waiting to jump out and grab him. It was a simple square, three quarters of the space occupied by a grey, mottled loveseat, a luxurious black recliner and desk coated in miscellaneous documents and papers. The walls were beige and rosewater, the floors carpeted a soft cream. It was a desperate attempt to be soothing, trying to make up for the ruin that was the rest of the flat. Arthur awkwardly leapt over the loveseat and eyed the pages on the desk speculatively. He didn't want to pry, truthfully. But what if one of them was a note she'd left? Doctor Braginski was known for being scatterbrained, so it wouldn't come as much of a surprise that she'd forgotten to stick it to the door. He snatched a page and read it quickly, scanning for some indication as to where she'd gone. Some sort of form, he assumed, placing it back down again. The others all appeared to be the same — that was, until he spotted one neatly folded, tucked under a pile of electricity bills. He plucked it out. On the front was written her full name — _Yekaterina Braginski_ — in joint cursive, the type that was neat without being polished, readable without trying to be. The type that you used when writing to family.

He shouldn't look at it. That would be nosey and rude. He should just put it back and leave. Arthur chewed thoughtfully on his lip. He'd never heard of anyone using her proper first name before — it was always her nickname, Katyusha, although how that related to Yekaterina he could never suss out. And who would be sending letters to her, anyway? Nobody did that anymore. She'd already confessed to having been raised without parents during one of her waterworks, and her sister lived with her, which meant there was only one other option...

_Just one peek_, he thought, and unfolded the letter.

On the inside was complete gibberish. Arthur squinted, taking in the strange shapes and angles the letters formed, and realised, no, not gibberish — Russian. Which in all honesty, was probably worse. He let his eyes wander the sentences, not one of them making an ounce of sense, and severely wished he hadn't taken French (which tended to happen on a regular basis, but for deviating reasons). Then he caught sight of the sign off at the bottom, and the rest of the page ceased matter:

_С уважением,_

_Ivan_

Ivan Braginski. The big brother Natalia blabbered on about oh-so-proudly. He actually existed. Arthur went over the letter again, perusing. None of the words seemed any easier to decipher. He heaved a sigh, about to put it back down again, when a single word leapt off the page to greet him. It was different; it was English. Not just that, but it was a name. A name he knew. A name he would carry with him to his grave, which he would keep even then. A name he had tried so many times to change, to shed, to lose association with, but always ended up returning to. A name that was his right.

The name was 'Kirkland'.

Arthur blinked at the page, as if the movement of his eyelids might act as a rubber and erase the word. This didn't make any sense. If it was Katyusha sending the letter, perhaps, but why would her brother be writing about him or his family? He felt a chuckle rise in his throat. He was just being silly. There was probably dozens of Kirklands throughout Nottingham, he just hadn't encountered any of them. Still...he hesitated, the letter wavering between the desk and his pocket. Curiosity was his vice, and he was well aware of it. Plus, knowing Doctor Braginski, she wouldn't even be aware of its absence. Surely it couldn't hurt to—

A sudden crash sounded out, followed by a sob.

Arthur's head jerked up, startled. He quickly stepped back from the table, stuffing the letter into his pocket. It took several tries before it would fit. The crumpling sound the paper made was suddenly outrageously loud in the following silence, the air charged like the calm before a storm. He tensed up, listening. For a moment there was nothing, just his heavy breathing and the steady thump of his heart in his chest, syncing with an inaudible beat. Then a slow string of whimpers met his ears, drifting over from the far side of the room. There was a door, leading to a cupboard full of cleaning supplies. The noise continued, muffled somewhat by the obstruction between Arthur and this despairing person. But his mind instantly recognised those low notes of sadness. He tiptoed towards the door, strangely reluctant to break the silence even though this person would have certainly heard him by now. Then again, they were rather easy to sneak up on, as he'd learnt on those first few sessions when it hadn't occurred to him to knock. He leant on the door, easing it open slowly, deciding not to ask permission for entrance. If they hadn't let him in when he'd knocked earlier, then there was little chance they'd answer him now. But either the slab of rotting wood was much lighter than he'd anticipated, or maybe he leant into it a little too heavily, because it swung open as if the hinges were brand new, and suddenly he was tumbling to the floor.

Thanks to his lack of social life both during and after school hours, Arthur had had the wind knocked out of him more times than he could count, so he recovered rather quickly from that. What was a little bit more of an obstacle was the position he landed in, limbs twisted and piled atop one another, face smushed against the floor in such a way that no air could be sucked in through his nostrils. He flailed about desperately as he attempted to untangle himself, all the while trying to accumulate enough oxygen to keep his brain functioning. His foot lashed out and struck something metal. A loud clang followed, accompanied by a sharp blow to his head as a sweeping brush fell upon it. Arthur swore and swatted it away, rolling onto his elbows and pushing himself to his knees. His shoulder hit the edge of a shelf, and even more intensely coloured profanity spilled out of his mouth. When he finally staggered to his feet, he was bashed, bruised and all around peeved. Not to mention acutely aware that his discreet entrance had just turned into a clown's routine.

The crying had stopped. In the middle of the floor sat its source, hugging her knees, eyes rimmed red like garish spectacles. A strand of silver hair had fallen into her face, but she didn't appear to have noticed, so intent was she on staring at him as if he'd just crash landed his space ship in here and offered to introduce her to one of his alien travelling companions. Arthur tended to get these sort of looks a lot.

To be frank, he'd never been overly fond of Katyusha Braginski. It was nothing too personal — she was, all in all, a sweet and caring woman, with empathy that far superseded anyone else's. But that was the problem. He found it ridiculous how much time she dedicated to others, how she could be so patient, so _altruistic_, how she listened and sympathised and acted like she could take on his burden as her own, how she'd actually made a _job_ out of it. He didn't trust anyone under the occupation she'd chosen. To him, psychotherapists were frauds, useless, people who couldn't find an area in life in which to succeed so they turned their non-existent talents to analysing the lives of others. Pathetic, he thought them, their methods illogical and unorthodox. And all the while, they were getting paid for his having problems.

It also didn't help that Francis, upon having learnt where he disappeared to every Friday evening, had pointed out that 'psychotherapist' could be anagrammed to 'psycho-the-rapist.'

"Arthur?" A soft voice broke through his reverie. Katyusha shifted slightly, drawing her knees up to her chin, peering at him through doe-like eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I—" he began, about to tell her how worried he'd been when she hadn't answered the door, but stopped when it occurred to him what a silly excuse that was. It was perfectly plausible she hadn't heard him straight away, and it certainly didn't warrant him barging in here. He'd sound like a total prat. Although he had been correct in his assumption that something was wrong, so perhaps his breaking and entering was justified? Not to mention _she_ was the one who had told him to come early. In the end, Arthur broke off his mental debate and simply said, "I wondered why you weren't answering."

"Oh." She looked down at her toes. Her body was trembling slightly, like a leaf clinging to a branch during strong wind. "I'm sorry," she said. Her voice shook too, though he could tell she was trying to keep it steady. "This isn't the best time."

"Are you alright?" The question formed in his throat and slipped past his lips before he could stop it. Arthur immediately felt stupid. Quite obviously she was not 'alright.' Who even asked that sort of thing to a woman as clearly distraught as Katyusha was? He fought down the urge to slap his forehead like an aggravated cartoon character, but Katyusha didn't seem to mind. She gave him a watery smile.

"I'll be fine. It's just me being silly, don't worry. I just need some time on my own, to get myself together."

Arthur just looked at her, curled on the ground, alone in a supply cupboard mostly taken up by mops, brooms, feather dusters and strange-smelling bottles of cleaning liquid, her head bowed to hide her tears. He highly doubted the validity of her words. "I could get Natalia," he offered, despite how little the prospect appealed to him. "If it's a family thing."

She shook her head. "I really don't need you to, but thanks."

"How about I get you something, then? A tissue? Some water?"

"I appreciate the offer, but —"

"Or maybe I'll just clean up the things I knocked over?"

"Arthur, this really isn't necess—"

"It won't take too long —"

"I don't —"

"Look, I'll just —"

"_Arthur._" Her voice was sharp, each letter piercing like a knife's blade. She reached up and rubbed her eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. "Please."

He swallowed. "Sorry."

Katyusha sighed gustily. It sent her fringe up in a puff. "No, you were only trying to help. It's just—" She broke off suddenly, her face twisted slightly, eyes losing focus. The unexpected change in expression caught Arthur off guard, though it lasted a mere moment before she regained her composure. She clutched her knees, her gaze at him imploring. "...things aren't going very well right now."

_When are they ever?_ Arthur thought petulantly.

"I just...I need the comfort of my own company, just for a little bit. Others cannot help me at the moment, and I assume you of all people understand what I'm talking about."

Her assumption was correct. Arthur _did_ understand. And that was why he'd been sent to therapy in the first place. Apparently, if he just learnt to _communicate_ instead of bottling up his emotions, and told adults when he was feeling upset, then they could aid him in overcoming the dark trench around his heart, the malevolent part of him preventing him from breaking down those barriers of awkwardness and tension and finally spouting his multi-coloured wings and becoming the social butterfly he was always destined to be. Then they could all hold hands and sing round the campfire, before riding magnificent stallions into a never ending sunset. Or something to that effect. It aggravated him to no foreseeable end, the hypocrisy of going to a therapist whose mentality was in worse shape than his own. He disliked her because of that. But he also empathised with her.

Not quite sure how to explain his decision — nor really feeling the need to — Arthur opted to give a curt nod by way of agreement. Some distant, whiney voice in the back of his head was chastising him for just relenting like that, giving him a strict telling off as he reached for the door handle and reminding him that a gentleman should in no way leave a lady by herself in a state such as the one Katyusha was in. Another voice joined it, this one soft and convincing, telling him other people's problems had nothing to do with him and he had every right to just walk away. The lines dividing them blurred, their words mingling and overlapping, indistinguishable. He could not differentiate between them, tell the rational from the irrational, as if either had held an ounce of rationality in the first place. As if the world itself did.

His hand froze around the doorknob. Was it really right to do this? _Should_ he just abandon her?

Fortunately — or unfortunately — the decision was made for him when Katyusha let out a small scream.

It lasted barely a second before it was cut off, transforming into a hiss as she sucked in air between her teeth. Arthur whirled around just in time to see her hand dart out, grabbing hold of a shelf, fingers scraping along the smooth wood. Her whole body began to shake, tremors racking it, her face red and contorted with pain. She wobbled precariously, tethering on some invisible edge. Arthur gaped, taken aback.

There had been something off about her, moroseness aside. He should have already noticed. She'd always been a disconsolate sort of person, but now there was a change in the way she sat hunched, different from all her other weeping postures. Her shoulders sagged dejectedly, as if gravity was slowly dragging them towards the Earth's core. Her face, hidden behind bedraggled hair, was ashen grey, lined and strained in a way someone in their twenties' shouldn't be. The woman who normally resembled a cherub had taken on the appearance of a tattered ragdoll, one stitch holding her entire form together. She slumped, and without a second thought he lunged to grab her, hands closing round her collarbone. It was prominent enough to press into his palms.

"Katyusha —"

"No!" The word seemed to tear itself from her lips. She jerked back from him as if his touch burnt. "No, please, you mustn't —"

And then she collapsed.

Her weight fell into his arms like a sack of spuds and he crumpled under it. He attempted to push her back up again, blatantly ignoring the feel of her horribly large knockers pressing down against his windpipe. With a desperate heave he righted her, his hand flying to his throat, massaging it as he drew in haggard breaths. His oesophagus was raw and burning. Her form was still, loose, her head lolled and eyes rolled back to the whites. Arthur felt a startling wave of concern rush through his veins.

"Katyusha?" He lightly tapped her face. "Katyusha, can you hear me?"

No response.

Shook her shoulder.

Still the same.

Pulled her hair.

Motionless.

He was slowly beginning to panic. Mind clear of ideas, Arthur's hands darted to his coat pockets, fumbling with the buttons and then frantically searching the interior. Tissues, his wallet, a packet of gum — where was his mobile phone? Dammit, dammit, _dammit!_ A tirade of curses surged past his lips, each one escaping like a caged bird darting for freedom. What the bloody hell was the protocol for something like this, anyway? Who was he supposed to ring? An ambulance? The guards? Her sister?

Natalia. The mere thought of her sent shivers up his spine, which he struggled to repress. Her image swam before his eyes, all angles and cruelty, the fair of her hair against the dark of her smile. And her twisted, blood red lips, mouth curving to form the sentence from before, over and over, a chant, a mantra, a curse.

She'd been looking at Alfred.

_No._ Arthur pushed these thoughts away, locked them in a chest and hid them in the furthest, dustiest corner of his brain he could find. That was nothing — the rambling of a cracked woman, nothing to worry about at all. He need not fear her, nor her warnings. And he needn't ring her, either — most days she came with Katyusha to work and lurked in the lower levels of the building, doing who-knew-what in that time. Prowling for young male virgins to devour? It seemed a likely theory.

Muttering an apology to Katyusha — whether for leaving her, or for fetching her sister, he couldn't say — he made to stand. A pale blur sprang from seemingly nowhere and latched onto his wrist, snatching it upwards. Arthur stopped dead. He stared at the pale fingers encompassing his wrist, each one like the leg of an albino spider, yanking him back to his knees. They struck the floor, hard. Arthur gasped as a wave of pain shot through his bones. His eyes were fixed disbelievingly on the hand, as if merely looking at it would explain its presence, but slowly they began to move, to run up the arm, to the shoulder, and straight across. To the face that was most certainly no longer unconscious.

Two teal orbs were staring him down, wide and dark and filled with disgust. The Ukrainian wrinkled her nose and dropped his arm as if it were a used tissue. It fell heavily to his side. She wiped her hands on her trouser legs, her face much too pristine to ever be Katyusha's, lip curled and brows drawn. Eyes flickered upwards, regarding him coolly, emanating an almost eerie aura. Arthur found himself staring back, transfixed. Finally, that alien mouth curved upwards in a grotesque sort of amusement. "Arthur," she said. "Hello at last."

The voice exploded into Arthur's mind like a punch in the face, shattering the glass wall that seemed to have built up between him and reality. It had changed. The tone was smooth and cold as black ice, but something else was amiss. The accent, he realised. To the untrained ear it sounded the same, but Arthur had been coming to Katyusha for nigh on two years now. For him, there was a discernible difference. This new voice was brighter, at odds with her expression, a little more persuasive, too. The heavy sadness which usually coated every syllable that poured out of Katyusha's throat had vanished entirely. What had replaced it was something unnerving in its cheer, deadly in its benignancy. _Encroaching_, he thought, described it accurately indeed. Seeping in like a steady stream through his eardrums, polluting his thoughts and twisting his notions — and she hadn't even said five words yet.

Arthur shook his head roughly. His neck creaked with the force. He tried to quell his errant thoughts, currently scattered like petals to the wind, and gathered and compressed them together until they slowly formed some semi-recognisable part of his mind. Drawing strength from this, he took a breath and stared evenly into a face that had now resolved into an affable grin. Yet it did not quite reach the eyes. "Who are you?"

Katyusha tilted her head to the side, feigning confusion. "Whatever can you be meaning? Clearly I am Yekaterina."

"Except that 'Yekaterina' refers to herself as 'Katyusha.' " He fought to keep his voice strong, along with his resolve, and repeated, "Who are you?"

Katyusha laughed. It was nails scrapping against a blackboard, against his skull. "Okay, you have got me. I am not Yekaterina. I am merely — how you say — a visitor."

_Visitor._ The word resounded around Arthur's mind, loud and dissonant, like an alarm bell. For the first time in so many years, memories resurfaced, bits and pieces taken from books with cracked spines and dusty covers and weathered pages. Paragraphs about the infamous bodysnatchers, demons and ghosts — beings who bode no substantial form and so were reduced to commandeering the bodies of others in order to wreak havoc upon the world. Or some form of superstitious nonsense like that. Nowadays, Arthur didn't believe a word of it. He wasn't a little child, to fantasise consistently about other realms and underworlds and monsters under the bed. Yet despite that, he found himself desperately trying to recall the ways to exorcise a possessive entity, if the chant could be spoken spontaneously or if he needed to read it out, whether or not materials were necessary. If it was the former, he was done for. Even if push came to shove, he doubted he could banish the creature with a mop and a bottle of Cif.

Katyusha was watching for his reaction, running a pinkish tongue over chapped lips. A shudder ran through him at the sight that wasn't _quite_ human. He swallowed, opening his mouth, but words had fled him. There was something in those eyes, something hungry that seemed to snatch syllables off his tongue. No. That was impossible. This was all impossible, fairy stories he had long since dismissed as fictitious, a chest from childhood that ought to stay buried. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to _remain calm._ Focus on priorities. And his utmost priority was —

"What do you want?"

"Oh." Those piercing eyes widened. Arthur too, had surprised himself by blurting out the question. "Very brusque, are we not? I assumed you would be worrying about Yekaterina."

Arthur's breath caught. His immediate reaction was to deny it, but then he realised the creature was right; he hadn't even spared a thought towards Katyusha's welfare. Hell, someone had just _taken over her body._ Visiting, was the term it had used. Did that imply that she was still there, just hosting this — this imposter? Could a human being even survive that sort of thing?

_It doesn't matter_, he told himself sternly. _Whether or not she's dead can't affect you now._ It was a surprisingly calming notion — after all, if he didn't look after Number One, then who would be around to help save her were she truly in danger? Self-preservation was perfectly natural in the context. He wasn't being cruel. He was being logical.

However, even the best logic cannot disguise one's true emotions.

She must have caught it in his face, a fleeting glimpse of worry, of guilt. Her lips curled, head dropping forward conspiringly as if to whisper a secret. Her sudden proximity made his skin crawl. "There is no need to be worrying." That peculiar accent seemed to intensify by the second. "She is safe. However, if she is to be staying that way..." Katyusha trailed off, sitting back on her haunches. Pallid hands rested, palms up, on her knees. Arthur piled all his focus into dissecting her face, searching to see a crack or breach, something to prove her threat hollow. There was nothing; it was smooth, blank, plain as a sheet of paper.

He averted his eyes. "So are you going to answer my question, then?"

Katyusha's head tilted. "Well, that is rather tricky. What _do_ I want?" She tapped her chin, pondering. "I want...hmm...I want information."

Arthur started. "Information?"

"Yes. A certain piece of information in particular, though." Her face hardened, jaw pulling taunt. "Tell me, Arthur — what is your relationship with the American boy?"

The question was about as expected as an honest politician. Arthur's mouth dropped open. "My — what?"

"The boy. Tell me about the bond you two share."

"Bond?" Arthur wasn't sure what was going on. He'd expected her — or whatever the hell was speaking through her — to ask for something important, some secret he kept buried within and would rather have taken to his grave than revealed. Alfred was the last thing on his mind right now. Why on Earth would a demon take an interest in him? There was no sense to be found in that.

Arthur revised that sentence. Sense. He was thinking about sense whilst sitting before a possessed psychotherapist who was blackmailing him with her host's life. Now that was just gelastic.

Why was he going along with this? Why was he torturing himself so? It couldn't really kill Katyusha, because it didn't really exist. It was all Arthur's mind, addled due to the stress of exams. Or perhaps it was just a dream. Yes, that was it. He had spent the previous night studying much too hard and, as such, had fallen asleep in class. He'd wake up in a little while, in trouble with teachers but safe and sound, and none of this would even matter. He'd dismiss it like every other barmy thing he'd dreamt. None of it was happening, so there was no point in staying.

Though following _that_ form of reasoning, there was no harm in staying, either.

"Arthur." Katyusha tapped her leg impatiently. Her fingernail nearly tore through the fabric of her trousers.

He swallowed. Curiosity and rationalism grappled for supremacy, a tremendous battle, but eventually, the former won out. It was his vice, after all.

"We don't have a 'bond' or 'relationship' or whatever the bloody hell you're on about," he told her. "We only became acquainted today."

"Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?" Arthur scoffed despite himself. "Just because it's recent, doesn't give it less depth. How do you _feel_ about him?"

Now there was something familiar, at least. He was used to being asked things like that even when she was in control of her body. But perhaps he was a little _too_ accustomed to this line of questioning; before he could bite his tongue, he'd opened his mouth and blurted, "Indifferent."

It was a default word, something he'd respond whenever he wasn't feeling up to composing some sort of fabrication. Usually she'd sigh in exasperation but delve no further. The demon, however, wasn't so forgiving. Her face twisted, eyeballs bulging and turning globular, hands clenching and unclenching. "_Arthur,_" she practically sung, voice oozing sweetness and poison, "I don't like it when people lie to me."

Arthur set his features, unflinching. "I'm not lying."

Which he wasn't. He felt nothing towards the bespectacled git. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

"Oh, I think you are." Her hand shot out, grabbing his chin and pulling him towards her so sharply she extracted a strangled gasp. She pressed her forehead to his, staring at him as though a flutter of her eyelids might see him ripped away and cast into eternity forevermore. Her eyes were hungry, greedy, devouring up every inch of him, studying contours and angles and shadows as if they harboured some secret language only she could decipher. "I see everything," she muttered, "It's early, but it's there. Interlocked...is it a good or bad thing?"

Arthur grabbed her wrist, attempting to tear it off him, but her grip held fast, almost as strong as her sister's, painfully so, as if she wanted to compress his jaw so much that it crumbled into dust and bone. Some distant part of his mind wondered if they came from a long line of pro-wrestlers. "What the hell are you on?" he spat.

She chuckled as if his attempts were the ever-so feeble struggles of a child. "Don't say that, _Artie_." Arthur felt his spine grow rigid. "This could be to your benefit. After all, despite everything, despite what's to come, you're ever so _selfish._"

He froze. "What do you mean what's to come? What's coming?"

She ignored his question, her eyes narrowing to the point of slits. "I am not certain how it will transpire. Alfred, wasn't that his name? What would you be willing to do for him?"

"I don't —" Arthur began, but she cut him off.

"Would you give up your house? Your money, your belongings, your family and friends?" She let her nails dig deeper into his chin, pulling him close enough that he could catch the sour scent of her breath. "Your _life_?"

This was nuts. She was nuts. _The world_ was nuts.

_Demons_, he thought, snorting derisively. Had he really fooled himself into believing that? Katyusha wasn't possessed; she was merely barmy. Loony. Off her rocker. Her mental health had never been in the best of states anyway, so it was really only a matter of time before she cracked completely and became worthy of the mad house. It was nothing but delusional bollocks, all these things she was spewing, about visitors, about bonds, about things approaching and about Alfred—

Wait. That didn't make any sense.

How did she know about Alfred?

_It's alright_, Arthur told himself calmly, _There is a perfectly rational explanation for this._ His brain tore through the entire situation to find one. Natalia — she could've put her sister up to it. Perhaps she was pissed at him for walking off on her earlier, and forced Katyusha to act in this way to exact her revenge. There were so many holes in that theory that it was a proverbial sieve, but it was plausible none-the-less. Well, more plausible than possession, anyway.

"You are wondering why I am asking you this." It wasn't phrased as a question. Arthur looked at her, eyes consumed by a silent inferno, lips tightened to the point where they were a mere dash across her face, cheekbones sunken and skin the colour of ashes in the fireplace. Not human. Not pretending. Real, oh so real. Theories out the window.

"Yes."

She cocked her head to the side, mouth quirking. "Death," she replied simply, and her eyes flickered to the space above his shoulder, her small smile slowly spreading like butter over bread. A strange fear clawed at his chest, as if some psychotic cat resided there, and Natalia's words echoed in his head: _You bring death with you, Arthur. It follows in your wake._

His head jerked around as if some invisible puppeteer had pulled on his strings, finally breaking her grip. He didn't know what he was expecting to see — most likely a rotting skeleton clothed in a flowing black robe, a long, bloodied scythe held brandished in front of it. Apprehension tightened his throat, moistened his palms, but when he turned around he met nothing but air. Katyusha laughed.

"You won't be seeing it. Not yet, anyway. You need to be having patience." A flicker of pain crossed her face; she winced, features twisting, before shaking it off. "I have little time left. We will be meeting soon, Arthur Kirkland. Be sure you have your American when we do." A shadow crept across her visage, consuming, blotting, and for just a moment, transforming. "You will be needing him _very much._"

The words were a snake's hiss, drilling into his ears, drawing out blood. Arthur could feel their icy cold as if it pressed to his skin.

And then the shadow shifted, and her body stiffened, her eyes hollowing then registering shock before she tipped forward. For the second time in so many minutes Arthur helped her back up, her breathing erratic, her entire body leaden. She sat back, gasping, before her gaze fell on him, a question in its own right. Confusion was practically chalked on her face. "Arthur," she managed, "What —"

Arthur shook his head. "I should be asking you that. Were you really just — do you remember what happened?"

Only after the words had been spoken did it strike Arthur how foolish they were. There was nothing saying that this really was Katyusha, that this wasn't just an act put on by the creature to catch him off guard. But the puzzlement and worry sparking out of her eyes told him otherwise. She had the appearance of a deer caught in headlights — no, worse than that, for a deer could still bolt for safety. She bore more semblance to a cowering insect, eyes squeezed shut in terror, in anticipation of the boot that was about to descend and crush the life out of her.

"What happened?" she echoed uncertainly. "We were — I was speaking to you, and then...and then I collapsed? No, that's not right. There's something else." Realisation suddenly dawned in her eyes, her face paling to the point of transparency. "I said something, didn't I? Oh God, I did. Not again." She began to shake. "Again...Oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry..._again_..."

Arthur swallowed, digesting her words. "This has happened before?"

Katyusha pressed her hand to her mouth, shaking her head, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes like raindrops in a gutter. "I wanted you to leave," she whispered. "I didn't want you to witness it. You weren't even supposed to be...not this early...But it doesn't matter, does it? He said you were a key asset — a link. But you never told me _anything._ I had nothing to relay back. So of course he'd want to speak to you before —" She broke off with a sob.

"Before what?" Arthur pressed, trepidation creating a well in his heart. "What the bloody hell is going on, Katyusha? Why did that thing want to know about Al — about me?"

Tears had begun to pour down her cheeks, fat and glossy. "He wanted," she gasped, "He w-wanted—"

"Yes? He wanted what?"

"He wanted —" And then she froze. Her mouth flopped open, eyes widening to the size of saucers, glued to an eerily familiar point behind him. Slowly, as if she were moving through honey, she raised her left hand, finger trembling, pointing at something over his shoulder as if she were a ridiculous character in a film, as if this were all staged. A strange sound emitted from her throat, not quite a word, more a whimper, a mewl.

Arthur practically snapped his neck trying to catch sight of what had got her so transfixed. But once again, the apparition eluded him.

"D-d-d—" she stuttered, each letter a knife twisting in his chest, "D-d-d-de—"

"Death," Arthur finished, and the word tasted like arsenic.

Katyusha mutely nodded.

But Arthur was no longer looking — he was too busy wrenching open the door and darting for the stairs. He wanted no more to do with this. He'd had enough. He took the steps two at a times, not even stopping when her call of "Arthur!" reached his ears. It was far too much, all of this, a far cry away from the normality he'd come to accept. He'd promised himself years ago that it was all over, convinced himself that magic didn't exist, that all the creatures he'd spotted growing up were formed purely from his imagination and nothing but. Why on Earth did that have to change _now_?

He sped down another flight, feet hammering against the rotting wood, and was about to mount the final one when a figure stepped in his way. He tried to go around it, but it blocked his path. He found himself looking at a rather large bosom attached to a rather blonde girl.

"Hello Arthur," Natalia said, her porcelain features composed into an expression that might have been considered friendly had it not been for the shadows that lingered behind her eyes, or the slight way her mouth curled downward. "Fancy meeting you here."

He had another go at stepping round her, but she merely stepped in his way, smiling sweetly. "Where are you off to?"

"To see the wizard," he snapped. "Move."

"Oh, now don't be rude." She placed her free hand on his chest, shoving him backwards so he stood in the middle of the landing. In her other arm she held a bulky object covered with cloth. She clutched it to her side as stepped up to him, a clear act of dominance, glaring him down like an animal might. Arthur didn't flinch. She leant in close, her voice barely a whisper, "After all, your future isn't looking too peachy, is it?"

Arthur went rigid. He jerked away from her as if her very presence burned him, as if she was surrounded by an aura of flames, and backed up until his heels hit a step. Natalia seemed unfazed by his reaction. She didn't even move to follow him. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"You said it might not be me."

"I did, didn't I?" she said, almost absently. "Well, I hardly think that matters. You'll be broken either way, be the deceased you, or someone you care about. A parent, a sibling, a _boyfriend_..."

"Alfred and I are not dating," Arthur hissed. "What the hell is wrong with your sister?"

"Changing the subject, are we? There's no need to worry, _lapochka_; your secret's safe with me."

"There is no secret! Now answer my question."

"Katyusha is a little unwell at the moment, is all." Natalia laughed. "But is that really all you're concerned about, Arthur? What with death lurking around the corner?"

"I don't believe in all your superstitious nonsense." A greater untruth had never been told.

Natalia seemed amused by this, letting him glimpse her pearly whites. He was surprised about the absence of fangs. "Well, it's a good thing I have enough belief for the both of us, then, isn't it?"

She slowly began removing the cloth from the object she held. Arthur watched, curious despite himself, as the grey fabric was pulled off and deposited carelessly on the floor. It sent dust particles rising. He looked at the thing in her arms, and blinked. Then he blinked again. Then a third time, just to make sure his vision was working properly. It was. He said, "That's a pumpkin."

Natalia ran her thumb down the tough skin of the orange vegetable. "It is," she admitted. "And it's also your protection."

"But it's a _pumpkin_."

"Pumpkins are useful," she stated firmly, "They hold a sort of power. Keep the beasties at bay." She tugged him forward by his sleeve and dumped the pumpkin into his arms. "It might just keep you alive until Halloween."

Arthur stared down at the object he was now holding as if it was a bomb that might detonate any second. "Why would you want me to live?"

"Oh Arthur, Arthur." She sniggered a type of snigger that adults usually reserved for children. Her pale hair fanned out from her head as she shook it. "You're so naive, you know. You can never just see the big picture for once. Try to envision, please." And with that comment, she brushed past him and marched up the stairs, pausing as her foot rested upon the above landing. "I'm glad it's you, you know," she mused, "The American ones are so conspicuous." And with that she was gone, throwing a "Keep safe!" over her shoulder as she went.

Arthur heard a door slam, and a key turn, and then silence. He was alone with nothing but his thoughts and an awkwardly shaped vegetable.

* * *

**I honestly don't know why I felt the need to end it on that.**

**So anyway, apologies for taking so long! I've been distracted by everything from school to homework to John Green to Eurovision (namely, That Time That Poland Lent Austria His Clothes – now forever my favourite act) and if this chapter feels a little rushed to you — it certainly does to me — then that's probably the reason. Not much occurs either, but it does open up a few questions and there's one or two things that are essential to the plot.**

**On a brighter note, the next update will see the return of Alfred — only one chapter and I miss him already — and actual action! It might not be posted for quite a bit, due to my good mate pressure paying me a visit, but the minute I finish JC these things should come quite a bit quicker. Hopefully.**

**And with that, please review and tell me what you think! Feel free to give some guesses on which character you think will be subject to the death everyone keeps blathering on about, or will any at all? Tell me what you think!**


	3. Memento Mori

**Nearly forgot this:**

**Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it.**

**Thanks to SakuraMoriChan for beta-ing. :)**

* * *

By the time he reached Angel Row, the sky had lost its indigo hue and become a sheet of pure black, like the maw of some great creature threatening to swallow the Earth. The wind was bitterly cold as it whipped through the all-too thin material of his shirt, sending goosebumps rippling across his flesh. What had started off as a light jog had turned into Arthur dragging his feet along as if they bore lead weights. His limbs felt achy, tired, his head heavy, and all he wanted to do was lie down.

The streetlights around him flickered uncertainly, as if they weren't sure whether to conform to the general rule that a light should aid someone in finding their way through the darkness, or fight the power and just let the people stumble along. Pretty soon their metal poles would be strung with garlic and jack-o'-lanterns, the streets lined with an assortment of tacky plastic skeletons and vampires, squealing children dressed in atrocious costumes taking up the roads and pavements. Already he could spy two little boys dashing past, arms laden with loo roll, chattering about who would make a better mummy. It had always been a mental debate of his, which outfits were uglier, the shop-bought or the home-made. He despised this time of year, not just because of the hooligans with their bangers and fireworks, but because it made a perfect mockery of what had once been a beautiful holiday. The ancient Celtic traditional of god worship and occult practice had been replaced with snot-nosed brats in ridiculous attire — the costumes weren't even _scary_ anymore — demanding sweets just because they'd gone to the bother of dressing up. It was an abomination. He'd have liked to have found whatever upstart Pope or President or Prime Minister had suggested this and unleash the little terrors on them. See how _they_ liked it.

But then, perhaps he was just being bitter, pouring all his hate into Halloween to avoid the real reason the end of October made him ill-tempered. It wasn't something he liked to be reminded of, less a memory, more a dull pounding behind his eyes and a devious little voice in his ear, constantly bringing those thoughts back. There was another reason for his hatred of Halloween. He was reminded of it as he took out his mobile phone — it was in his trouser pocket, of course, the one place where he hadn't thought of looking before — and his eyes automatically darted up to the message bar. It was empty. He sighed, placing the device back in his pocket, wondering if he should just go ahead and ring _him_. Just this once. But then, it had been five years since they'd last spoken — at least, spoken properly, without screams and shouts and heated threats. Five years since the incident. Even if it was _his_ birthday coming up, why bother to get back in touch now? It would only end in tears or blood. Knowing them, most likely both.

Arthur trudged around a corner. His flat was a welcome sight. It was near the end of the street, old and shabby, certainly having seen better years. But as he approached it, digging around in his pocket for a key, he knew that his forest green door with its peeling paint— brass numbers long since having fallen off— would be there to greet him like an old comrade.

However, this was not the case. Someone was blocking the doorway, standing in front of it with his hands in his pockets, broad shoulders touching both sides of the frame, whistling, for all the world a cheery young teen come to pay a visit to his friend.

Arthur knew better.

"Heya!" Alfred greeted as Arthur stomped up to him, a buoyant smile taking up the entire expanse of his face. Arthur desperately wanted to spit in it.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I came to see you!" the American replied, grin never wavering. "Well, and because that French dude said to."

Arthur scowled. "_Francis_ sent you here?"

"Yeah. He texted me and asked how the interview went, and I told him we weren't finished, and he said he thought it would be best if I headed over to yours to complete it as soon as possible." Catching the murderous glint in Arthur's eye, Alfred hastened to add, "He told me not to come too early 'cause you were off at something important, but I guess I misjudged the time anyway, since I've been here for like half an hour. I've got the texts on my cell if you wanna check—"

"No need," Arthur spat, shoving past him and continuing to root in his pocket. The fact that the prat was still out here must mean that Peter wasn't home — ergo, his good-for-nothing little brother had just waltzed off to a friend's house without bothering to inform him. Typical. Arthur produced a set of keys held together by a metal ring and began searching for the correct one.

Alfred smiled. "Oh. Okay. Cool."

"Now kindly sod off."

The American blinked, smile instantly vanishing as if it had been wiped away. "What?"

"You heard me." Arthur picked a key at random and shoved it into the lock, shifting the pumpkin onto his hip because _of course_ he'd forgotten to bin the bloody thing in his sheer determination to get home before another outrageous incident occurred. "There's no way in hell I'm doing any more of this tonight."

"But Francis said—"

"Yes, well you can go and tell Francis that he can shove his bloody interview — no, actually, his entire sodding excuse for a newspaper — right up his big, fat, philandering arse, because God knows that's what he seems to do with the only other thing he cares about!"

Alfred held his hands up, taken aback by the sudden outburst. "Woah. Dude, what crawled up your ass and died?" His eyes widened and he leant forward conspiringly, voice dropping to a whisper. "Is it because someone glued two caterpillars to your face?"

"Caterpillars?" Alfred's eyes darted towards Arthur's forehead and back, the first bit of subtlety the Brit had seen from him thus far. The effect was ruined, however, by the fact that Arthur suddenly realised what he was indicating to. He sent him his most heated glare, teeth grinding. "_Those,_" he hissed, "are my _eyebrows._"

"Oh. _Oh._" Alfred's brow furrowed sympathetically. "Sorry, man."

Arthur wasn't certain whether he was apologising for his comment or for the Brit's unfortunate amount of facial hair and wasn't bothered enough to ask. Instead he settled for drilling his eyes into the boy and his frankly ridiculous choice of attire. Although Arthur had been in a bit of a rush, he'd still allotted himself enough time to get sufficiently dressed and throw on a coat before he went to therapy. Alfred, on the other hand, was out on a bitterly cold autumn's eve wearing nought but a loose fitting T-shirt and jeans. The glow from the streetlamps reflected off his glasses, setting his cerulean eyes alight in a way that was much too bright for someone who should currently be freezing their bollocks off. Arthur scoffed and shook his head, resuming his hunt for the correct piece of incised metal, shifting the pumpkin to a more comfortable position.

That caught Alfred's attention. His grin returned like the most annoying and cliché of all villains, constantly being knocked down only to pop back up again just when you thought you'd seen the last of them. "Awesome," he cried, taking it off Arthur, possibly the most helpful thing he'd done that day. "Dude, I love these things! Are you gonna carve it up?"

"Not likely," Arthur growled, trying another key.

"Whaddaya mean, 'not likely'?"

"Well, in case you haven't been paying attention in History class, over here we replicate the _samhnag_ created by Celts in Ireland and Scotland by carving out _turnips_, not that monstrously orange excuse for a vegetable."

Alfred petted the pumpkin and shot Arthur an irritated look. "There's no need to insult the poor thing just 'cause you Brits have some whacky traditions."

Arthur didn't deem that worthy of a response, so he just gave Alfred the two-finger salute without even looking up. He couldn't see him, but he could feel the puzzlement emanating off the American in waves. "Uh, Artie. You're doing the peace sign backwards."

And that was when Arthur decided he'd had enough.

"Shut up."

Alfred peered at him. "Hm?"

"I said," he cried, wheeling around, eyes blazing with fury, "Shut the HELL up, Alfred!" His fists clenched, heart booming, frustration coiled and building until it exploded out of him in those words. All the anger he'd felt throughout the day, pent up, now finally being released. His arms shook with the force of it. Alfred jerked back as if he'd been slapped, hands flying up like he expected it to happen again. And of course the object that those hands had been supporting was left hovering in empty air, frozen for a moment before it began its plummet towards the pavement. The pumpkin struck the hard concrete, bursting open, the innards exploding outwards onto the street in a mixture of guts and mush. Alfred stared at it as if it had materialised out of nowhere, and the idiotic look on his face just served to rile Arthur even more. He stepped up to him, fuming.

"You— you wanker! You bloody arsehole! You absolute Yank!" Each insult was a projectile conveying his fury, aimed right at the American's heart. "You just can't keep your gob shut for one bloody minute, can you? All you've done is babble on about _nothing_. You with your stupid football and your minuscule brain and your muscles and your glasses and your eyes and your _hair _— it's the colour of wee!" Alfred's hand darted up to his sunny locks subconsciously. "Why can't you get it through your thick skull that I DON'T like you?"

The blond's face twisted and morphed, changing into something partways hurt, partways crestfallen. "But what about earlier?" he asked. "In the canteen?" Even his tone managed to sound dispirited. Arthur had to give him credit — he was a pretty good actor.

"What happened in the canteen?"

"You—" he gave a small shrug, "You laughed."

"I laughed," Arthur deadpanned. "That's it. People laugh. You said something funny. It in no way pertains to whether are not I find you likable. Now kindly leave."

There was a pregnant pause, Arthur staring the much taller, much _stronger_ boy into submission, as if he could really take him down given the chance. Could he? It was doubtful. Despite acting like a three-year-old, the Brit was certain that Alfred didn't punch like one.

After another minute of nothing but the faint sounds of faraway traffic, Alfred lifted his chin. "No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not leaving." He crossed his arms in defiance. "I promised the Frenchie I would do this interview, and heroes don't go back on their promises."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, so now you're a hero all of a sudden?"

"Alfred F. Jones has _always_ been a hero." He grinned, and for a moment they were back in the canteen, joking together, this bizarre American who seemed to awaken something in Arthur he hadn't even known existed. "I'll even let you see my cape if ya want."

Arthur had never seen a smile like that in his life, one that somehow managed to infuriate and captivate him all at once. It sent sparks running along the edges of his nerves, burning, consuming, pulling him in. It felt warm, and yet — dangerous. It was detrimental to him. He shook it off like layer of dust, deepening his scowl so much that he was sure he was obtaining premature wrinkles. "I would be delighted to see it. Another time. Shove off, Alfred."

Alfred chuckled and spread his arms invitingly. "Sorry, Artie, but you're gonna have to make me."

"In that case, I think I will." Arthur frowned, and Alfred smirked back, the condescending twitch of his lips sending fresh waves of irritation through Arthur's veins. He stepped up into Alfred's personal bubble, palms out, and gave the blond a good shove in the chest. He knew it was futile, yet he did it anyway, waiting for the American to stumble backwards, to steady himself, to shake his head and laugh obnoxiously. And that's what should have happened. That's what _would_ have happened, had it not been for that infernal vegetable — had Natalia not given it to him, had he not forgotten to toss it, had Alfred not taken it off him, had he not snapped and Alfred not dropped it. Because now the pavement was littered with its slippery innards, meaning that Alfred's foot, which should have planted itself firmly on the ground, instead landed on these and continued to slide, taking the rest of the American with it. He wobbled, and for a moment it looked like he would right himself, before gravity decided to lend Fate a hand and tip Alfred's body just that fraction of an inch, sending it down towards the road.

Which would have been all good and well, had he not lunged forward at the last moment and grabbed Arthur's sleeve, pulling the Brit with him.

They both tumbled, a twisted mass of arms and legs, limbs entwined in ways that seemed physically impossible. Alfred struck the ground first, his back hitting the tarmac, Arthur landing on top of him only to bounce right off and land some metres away. The gravel tore through his cloths, sharp stones slicing the flesh on his face, creating slashes of blood like a cat's whiskers. He winced against the pain and, despite biting down on his tongue with the force of a dumbbell, cried out, the sound harsh and strangled in the empty street. For a heartbeat he lay there, his consciousness floating somewhere high above him, body numb to the shock and the hurt and everything but that one flickering streetlight over his head. It was pretty, he thought, the patterns it made, the way it seemed to dance, to bring sporadic bursts of colour into a dull, lifeless world. It reminded him of something, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. And then his mind decided that it had seen enough of the outside world, thank you very much, and slammed back into him, accompanied by its good chum agony. The undulating serenity was swept away in an instant, replaced by a throb that seemed both dull and scorching at the same time. He struggled to his knees, trying to ignore it, though it was like trying to ignore a thorn in his side. The only good news was the street was virtually deserted, so no one else had witnessed that embarrassing display. Arthur clutched at his burning side, calming his breathing, and cast his gaze towards where the American idiot had landed.

Perhaps it was due to his hard-packed musculature cushioning his fall, but Alfred seemed to have fared a little better than Arthur, or at least taken less time to recover. He was down on one knee, dusting off his jeans, not even sparing a look to check on _Arthur's_ condition. The Briton's fists clenched. Bloody wanker. He opened his mouth and removed his profanity filter, preparing to spew curses and swears and a myriad of colourful language at the American for his insolence, to reprimand him with such a force that his brain would turn to goo, when something stopped him. A strange feeling darting up his spine, tickling his chest, churning his insides. It was dark, ominous even, sending off warning signals in each brain cell. Heeding him. Whispering, _"Peripeteia."_

And then there was flash in the corner of his eye, and the car came speeding round the corner.

In retrospect, 'speeding' was perhaps the wrong word to use. The driver was most likely going no faster than the limit. But in those split seconds as it shot towards them, as it bore down on them like the wrath of a god, it might as well have been racing light — and winning. Alfred's head snapped up, jaw dropping open, eyes reflecting headlights and terror. Arthur watched as his muscles tensed, but he did not run. He only stared, transfixed as death approached on rubber tyres. There was a screech as, presumably, the driver hit the brakes, but it was too late. The vehicle kept coming. And Alfred remained motionless.

Arthur's mind sped into overdrive. It flashed back to his conversation with Katyusha — or the creature possessing her — to her strange and spontaneous questions, to the one that had shook him the most. _"Would you give up your house? Your money, your belongings, your family and friends?"_

_"Your _life_?"_

His life.

His life, for Alfred's.

Alfred. Puerile, narcissistic, American Alfred. Alfred who glowed like the setting sun. Alfred with his paroxysms of laughter, his burning-bright smile and his voice of deafening volume. Alfred who spoke to him as if he were no different to anyone else. Alfred who acted as if he really enjoyed being in Arthur's presence.

Alfred who Natalia had marked for death.

Alfred who might just want to be his friend.

Alfred who waited.

Waited for _him_.

The world narrowed, closing in on this moment, giving Arthur tunnel vision. All he could see was the boy and the oncoming car, everything slowed as if it were moving through jelly. There was a roaring in his ears from somewhere far, far away, and then he was on his feet and lunging, expecting to fall short, expecting to be too weak to shift Alfred's weight. But the adrenaline did its job and he was soaring, connecting with Alfred's solid body for a millisecond before he pushed it away. What became of the blond, he didn't see. Now the hunk of red metal took up his vision, right to the edges, and he squeezed his eyes shut, expecting his mind to close down before he could experience the full impact, to feel a gentle shove as if he was being rocked by tumescent waves before the world lapsed into darkness.

That didn't happen. The pain struck him full on.

His world exploded into sound and sight and sharp, piercing torture, impaling his thoughts, ripping his skin, cracking his skull. The colours burst before his eyes, hues he'd never seen before and had no chance to marvel at as his mind released a blood-curdling scream. He fell, he spun, the world danced, and all he knew was a distant laughter, the very Earth laughing at his misfortune, each bellow driving like drills into either ear.

A pressure fell upon his chest. Black spots filled his vision, devouring the world, and he could no longer open his mouth to yell, nor lift his fingers to reach. Every sense was assaulting him. Every thought was an enemy. A voice was calling him, but it seemed to come from a million miles away. It sounded concerned. He wondered who for.

The night was as black as the Ace of Spades, and Arthur felt the blood pool — though from where, he could not discern — and felt his breath catch, slow, and finally come to a stop. The blackness began to creep, and although his mind was no longer able to register any emotion, although every fibre of his being had finally shut down, it still seemed as if a steady sense of relief swamped him as he let himself slip. As he closed his eyes, steeled his nerve, and tumbled into the darkness.

As once and for all, he succumbed to the nothing.

And on that little street in Nottingham, on a night like any other, with the stars winking above his head, a young Englishman by the name of Arthur Kirkland gave in.

* * *

_Beep beep beep beep._

"Mmmmf."

_Beep beep beep beep._

"Sh...shut up..."

_Beep beep beep be—_

Arthur grunted and rolled over, stretching out an arm, mind fuzzy, determined to silence that infernal racket. When the bloody hell did he get an alarm clock, anyway? Whenever it was, it was the worst mistake he'd ever made. The sodding thing just would _not_ be quiet. He felt around, fingers closing over a rough surface that did not feel like his dresser. He frowned. Peculiar. The noise continued, a hammer pounding against his skull, but it was changing, rising in pitch, drawing out, almost becoming a wail—

"ARTHUR!"

And that _definitely_ wasn't an alarm.

Arthur shot up, eyes flying open. He recognised that voice. For a moment the world around him was just a blur, a mixture of hazy colours all running together, before the vague outline of shapes began to form. He blinked to clear his fuzzy vision. There were lights, flashing, stabbing his eyeballs with each burst of red and blue. The sound continued, blaringly loud, making Arthur wonder how could have ever mistaken it for an alarm. Now it was obviously discernible as a police siren. But why would the guards be outside his house, at this time in the morning?

Arthur groaned, sluggishly lifting a hand to drag down his face. What the hell had Peter done?

The shapes were becoming more distinct. Certainly not furniture, and ergo, not his bedroom. A large vehicle swam into view, striped, the piercing lights balanced on top and the back doors thrown open — an ambulance. So now he was outside. And judging by the gravel under his hands, in the middle of the road. Fan-bloody-tastic. He didn't have time to wonder how he'd got in this position, however, because a sudden movement caught his eye — footsteps darting past his head, accompanied by the squeak of wheels and voices laced with frantic tones. Arthur's mind was too addled to make out individual words, but he got the general gist. There must have been an accident. Question was, what happened, and how was he involved?

He took a breath, eyes fluttering closed, forcing his muscles to relax. There was something he was forgetting, a persistent nagging at the back of his skull, as if someone was tugging on a lock of his hair. He tried to recall the events leading up to this, but the minute he cast his mind back, a strange throbbing began in his temple, intensifying the more he pushed, until he was suddenly assailed with the agony of a full-blown migraine. He clutched his forehead, a howl escaping his throat, gritting his teeth against the unexpected onslaught. Here and there he caught glimpses, vignettes, a fleeting shot of road and metal before the pain began to climax, his brain burning as if someone was prising it apart. Fingernails dug into flesh in a futile attempt to distract himself from the torment, canines clamping down on his tongue as if that could in anyway aid him in the situation. The images were coming faster, darting by so quickly they were barely discernible, a jumble of emotions and memory until—

_The sound of an engine, the look in the American's eyes, terror wrapped in blue and hidden behind glass, the sudden movement, shoving him away, headlights and engines and the screech of tyres—_

Oh gods. It was all coming back.

The car. It had hit him. He'd been _run over._

And yet…apparently he was unharmed.

The pounding in his skull remained, lingering just behind his brow and beating out some sort of irregular drumbeat. He painstakingly shuffled into a kneeling position before placing one foot on the ground, then the other, and heaving himself up. A crack of lightning shot through his head, pain searing the back of his eyelids as if they were being pressed upon by hot irons. He gasped, stumbling, hand flying up to his head before it began to lessen...to recede...and then...it was gone. Arthur blinked, peering around him. He'd made enough noise — someone should have noticed. But although there were paramedics and police officers galore, none of them were paying him an ounce of attention. Instead, they were gathered round something, a gaping pedestrian placed at regular intervals between them, conversing and gesticulating and scribbling down notes. Arthur stumbled over to them, peering over shoulders, squinting to catch a glimpse of what was causing so much commotion.

"Pardon me," he mumbled, elbowing his way past, and if he'd been paying better attention he may have noticed that he slipped through a little _too_ easily. But he was too focused on what lay before him, finally coming into view as he stepped through the front line of the crowd. It was a lump laid out on a stretcher, covered by a plain white sheet — anticlimactic, to say the least. That was, until he noticed the state the sheet was in — dirty, rumpled. Stained with red.

A body. A dead body on a stretcher, like a scene you'd see in a mystery film. Yet that didn't make any sense, because he was fine, and there was no one else the vehicle could have hit, except for—

He blanched.

Except for Alfred.

And the world came crashing down around his ears.

"No." His mind was spinning. "_No._" He shook his head, expressing his denial in movement, because action changed things and action was what obviated disaster. "This can't happen! He can't of got hit — I pushed him out of the way! I _prevented_ this!" He looked at the people around him desperately, bystanders and professionals alike, heart crawling into his throat like a lizard ascending for sunlight. His breath began to quicken, tearing up pieces of oxygen and forcing them into his lungs, though not fast enough to compensate for the carbon dioxide he breathed out. Voices grew louder, whispers resounded, and everything ceased to exist as he stared at this shape, this _corpse_ which had once been a boy, a boy who'd talked and laughed and joked and called him _Artie_ in a voice so saccharine it was sickening. A boy who'd held life in the palm of his hand and burnt with its brilliance, who in the prime of his youth had held more promise than all the world's geniuses combined. He began to shake with fury, with fear, with a desire to turn round and just _punch_ someone, because what else was there to do? Instead he whirled on the nearest medic, physically restraining himself from lashing out and clocking him right in the jaw. "Sir," he began, and noticed how his voice had lowered, had deepened, had mounted the fine line between polite and threatening, "You appear to have made a mistake."

The man paid him no heed. He continued to jot down notes, occasionally glancing up from pad to look at the body and shake his head resignedly, muttering something to the woman beside him. Arthur let out a serpentine hiss from between clenched teeth before spinning to face the stretcher again, to face the thing that he'd once called an idiot and now had no functioning brain to be idiotic with.

"Alfred!" The name was like seawater running down his throat, numbing his tongue and tracing a burning path through his innards. "Alfred F. Jones — Alfred _Fucking_ Jones, goddammit, you are NOT dead! You can't — you're not — you're not allowed to be!" A futile argument, to say the least, especially as he was for all intents and purposes holding it with himself. But he was long past caring about technicalities.

"I swear, if you don't get up now, you git, I'll — I'll kill you!" A harsh bark of laughter escaped his throat. "I'll bloody well kill you all over again!"

He choked out a sob. This was ridiculous. He'd known Alfred less than a day, found him aggravating beyond belief, and yet here he was, having some sort of mental breakdown in public because of the wanker. It was too nonsensical to acknowledge, because this wasn't a story and people didn't develop these sort of attachments over the duration of a few hours. It must be shock, then, he decided. Shock from what he'd just witnessed, and he refused to accept the fact that he had felt in anyway akin to this before it had happened. That his pushing of Alfred out of the way had been due to anything but blind panic.

And so it was this _shock_ that struck him, that sent him stumbling backwards, out of the mass of impervious individuals who saw this on a daily basis and into the fresh, clean air which he sucked down gratefully. He felt sick, he felt confused, he felt as if he'd just spent the past hour getting pissed off his head. Hands on knees he inhaled, exhaled, soothed his turbulent mind. He forced himself to focus on something other than his thoughts running rampant, to ignore everything around him and just _relax._ He knew how to remain calm — of course he did. He was British.

And perhaps it was because of this enforced serenity that he did not hear the sharp intake of breath, the footsteps approaching, not even notice the presence of another until a voice stuttered, "A-Arthur?"

If before the world had crashed, now it burned.

It felt as if Arthur's feet were welded to the ground, and he had to put so much force into moving them it actually ached. But he managed it, despite that, despite the sheet of ice now forming in his stomach. He dragged himself in a half-circle to face the source of his sudden immobility, too stunned to even let his jaw drop, staring at the boy who should have been lying white faced on that stretcher, whose chest should have ceased to move and whose eyes should have ceased to glow. Alfred. Alfred F. Jones. Alfred F. Jones was standing there, on his own two feet, staring at Arthur with terror in his eyes and a sick sort of fascination on his face.

In theory, this should have been the moment. The big scene. The climax. This should have been where Alfred's irises danced with confusion and fear, where he tentatively asked, "Arthur, what happened?" and where Arthur could not find the voice to reply, could only gawk at Alfred's transparent body, the tears in his clothes, the stones embedded in his skin, the line of blood trickling from his hairline. But he could not, for none of those things were present. Alfred looked as tangible as he'd always been, his attire filthy but still intact, his skin bruised but not lacerated. A heavy blanket was draped around his shoulders, and his hands, limp by his sides, were trembling noticeably. His Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"Arthur," he repeated, not a whisper but a breath.

Arthur remained motionless as everything clicked. The car that wouldn't have had time to swerve. The people that batted not an eyelash as he barged through. The corpse whose physique looked that bit petit beneath the cloth.

So slow as to exaggerate its deliberance, Arthur lifted his hand to eye level, marvelling distantly at the way the warm colours of streetlights and bedroom windows streamed through hyaline skin. It was almost beautiful in its ethereal state. He could still see tinges and tints of what hues his sleeve had once been, though his actual flesh was much fainter. He beheld it for who knew how long, tilting the appendage this way and that, aware of how he must have looked to the American and not really giving a damn. Finally, after a time stretched so long it was liable to snap, he let his hand drop, turning his gaze to the blond once more.

Alfred had not moved, rooted to the spot, pupils enlarged tenfold. The moment Arthur's eyes fell upon him he winced, drawing in on himself, the grandiose facade retreating like the tide. His mouth opened and closed, soundless, before he finally managed a small squeak, escalating into a cough and finally a stammered, "Y-y-you—"

"I?" Arthur prompted impatiently, surprised at the smoothness of his own tone. It was a twisted sort of humorous, his composure returning the moment the tables were turned on him.

"Y-you—" Pause. Gulp. Arthur waited for what he knew was coming, bitterness, anger, sobbing and running. The word which hovered in the air between them, the one his mind refused to acknowledge but would have to come to terms with the moment he said it. A single, simple, four letter word he anticipated.

Which was why it came as such a shock when he finally gasped, "You saved my life."

It was the wrong thing to say. It was true — Arthur _knew_ it was true, had realised it the second the American had walked up to him. But the veracity of it was what made him seethe, made a bubble of fury swell within him, because he didn't _want_ it to be. He hadn't planned this; it had been spur-of-the-moment. There'd been no thought to his actions. He'd acted on impulse, and lost his bloody life because of it, while that prick retained a heartbeat and a pulse and a firm attachment to the world of the living! These thoughts began to gather, to cluster, seeping into his mind like a disease and sending his vision as red as carrion, red as the mulberries stained with Pyramus' blood. He flashed back to what had started this, that damned pumpkin, that damned moment it struck the concrete pavement, that damned tug as a strong hand darted forward and—

His face was deadpan. "You pulled me down."

No more than a second after he uttered this did Alfred's visage change, transforming into a minefield of guilt and fear, each emotion exploding onto his features only to be overshadowed by another. It made Arthur feel no better. In fact, it only served to feed his fury. Alfred had no bloody right to be afraid; _Arthur_ should be the quaking one, should be petrified with horror, because bloody hell, he'd just been killed!

_Killed._ As in, dead. Kicked the bucket. Pushing up daisies. And who was to blame? The idiot presently trembling in his boots, looking as if his pet cat had just been stepped on by a polar bear. He clenched his fists, drew lips back over teeth, muscles tensing as if he were about to lunge. In a voice as soft as spider's silk, he whispered, "Murderer."

Alfred blinked, puzzlement momentarily gaining dominance. "Huh?"

"_Murderer!_" His voice hit a pitch he hadn't known he could reach. Alfred flinched, stepping backwards so quickly that he nearly tripped over his own feet, looking for all the world a scared child, a child whose parents had just deposited in the wild to fend for himself. Gazing upon that stricken expression, Arthur should have felt at least a small pang of regret, should have felt the need to give even a tacit apology — and had this been even a short while earlier, he would have. But that seemed a lifetime ago, and he felt some strange detachment from it, as if he'd never been Arthur at all, just a spectator observing his life. It was so much easier to view it that way. It justified the satisfaction that swelled within him like a hastily pumped balloon, watching the American tremble.

Alfred swallowed thickly, then stuck out his chin, looking as if to re-install his bravado. In a voice that halted only slightly, he asked, "You're — you're here to kill me, aren't ya?"

For some reason, this struck Arthur as funny. So much so that he began to laugh. He threw his head back and let his shoulders shake with it, the boom loud enough to rival the ruckus going on behind them, a bizarre, intoxicating euphoria sweeping over him and drowning out all else so that even when he returned to Earth, that insane grin was still plastered on his face. "Kill? Me? Never." Relief made the git's shoulders sag, but before he could get too comfortable, Arthur added, "However, that doesn't mean I won't get my revenge."

He took a step towards the American, waiting for him to flee, but the muscles in his legs appeared to have stopped functioning. _All the better_, Arthur thought as he continued to beam like a madman.

"I'll haunt you, Alfred F. Jones. I swear to all that is divine I will. I don't know what the hell just happened, or why I'm still here, but _that_, I am certain of. You'll never be rid of me; every time you feel a shiver down your spine, or see a flicker in the corner of your eye, I'll be there." He learnt forward, making sure there was just enough space between them so that he could feel the fear radiating off Alfred in waves. "I've come back for you, Jones. And believe you me, you _are_ going to pay."

The other blond's countenance was indescribable. He stared at Arthur as if he were the epitome of all that was malevolent, and Arthur found this strangely pleasing. He leered for a moment longer, watching the sweat bead on the American's brow and start a slow trickle down his face, before drawing back, tilting his head as if observing him.

Alfred's left eye began to twitch. Arthur drunk up the fear like some particularly fine wine.

Finally, when Alfred seemed about to crack from the tension, Arthur turned away, his gaze falling on the paramedics who were giving Alfred strange looks and mumbling something about post-traumatic stress.

So it _was_ just the American who could see him. Arthur's lips stretched even wider. Oh, this would be _fun._

"I'll see you around, then", he called over his shoulder, chuckling as he shoved his hands into his pockets and began to stride away. He didn't spare another look at Alfred; he just kept marching forward, even reaching out an arm and letting it sail smoothly through a streetlight to add to the effect. His footsteps continued as the sounds faded away, as the road grew empty, as he rounded the corner away from his street.

There, he stopped.

Waited.

Checked the coast was clear.

And then broke into a run.

The world zoomed by in blur of light and colour as he dashed, dashed to who knew where — not him, oh no, but he kept at it anyway. His soles struck the ground with such force that it sent jolts of impact up his body, his _non-existent_ body, and the world was running together like wet paint on canvas, his eyes burning and prickling and leaking vast rivers of water that were in _no way_ made up of tears, throat drying up faster than a lake in the Sahara, which didn't even make any bloody sense but was happening none-the-less. He had to stop, to gather air, his back striking the wall of the nearest house and sliding down, in tandem with the droplets slipping down his face. When he hit the pavement he felt no pain, but it was brushed off, in the same way he brushed off the odd feeling running up his spine as he partly sank into the bricks. The waterworks continued their vicious onslaught, gushing down translucent cheeks. And for the first time since his brothers had left, Arthur left them to their own devices, made no attempt to wipe them away, drew knobby knees up to his chest and let his head drop into his arms. He let it all out, sobs and hiccups and full-out gasps, the tumult of emotions he'd bottled up and stored in a fridge in the back of his mind. There was no point in trying to muffle it — after all, who else would hear?

He shook his head, snivelling pathetically into the fabric of his coat. "I'm dead," he mumbled, the word foreign on his lips and tongue, and not in the sweet way of those from another language. He gritted his teeth, took a breath, and then repeated, louder, "I'm DEAD!"

It was ice on his soul. He closed his eyes, lids glued together by the moisture, and hugged his knees as tight as he could, letting that one word echo endlessly in a hollow skull, biting down on his lip and waiting for the metallic taste of blood — but of course, there was none. The night stretched out around him, infinite, patches of darkness coming to huddle in a circle around his form. He pressed his forehead to his kneecap and noticed none of it, locked firmly inside his own memories as he reviewed the day and all the things leading up to this. Of course he should have seen it coming. But what could he have done to prevent it?

Nothing, was the answer. He was completely and totally helpless.

And as this realisation dawned on him, stinging like a slap to the face and deepening his despair, he knew that somewhere out there, hidden amongst clusters of shadows, a demon was grinning in triumph.

* * *

**So...sorry? ^^'**

**Quick note of nearly no importance:**

**Angel Row: This actually exists, running from St. James' Street to Mount Street. I used it for the irony, of course, and played around with the geography a little to suit the story. It also has a pub, a McDonald's, and a tied history with the Trent Bridge Cricket Ground, essentially making it USUK Row. **

**Anyway – thoughts? Critique? General opinions?**

**Go ahead and review!**


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